


A Most Dreadful Mix-Up

by DownToTheSea



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Asexual Relationship, Domesticity, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Humor, Other, Post-Canon, Some angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-03
Updated: 2019-08-03
Packaged: 2020-07-29 19:23:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20087476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DownToTheSea/pseuds/DownToTheSea
Summary: In which a sequence of events involving a sleepy angel and a flustered demon leads to Aziraphale discovering that a truly terrible mistake has occurred.





	A Most Dreadful Mix-Up

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt on Tumblr - "odd socks"

There were angels dining at the Ritz, and neither of them had on matching socks.

To understand why this phenomenon occurred, one must rewind a little.

Unlike the slew of speculative fiction with the same basic premise that Aziraphale occasionally indulged in, Crowley and Aziraphale’s post-apocalyptic existence had been uneventful, quiet, and comfortable. Aziraphale had mostly moved into the flat, Crowley had mostly moved into the bookshop, and in the end it had been remarkably easy to fit the odd-shaped puzzle pieces of their lives together.

The ability to spend entire days together was still a novelty, and was likely to continue being so for quite some time. There were mornings when Crowley would wake up and be struck entirely speechless upon seeing Aziraphale next to him reading, propped against a collection of fluffy tartan pillows that Crowley would fervently deny having miracled into existence for him. And there were days when Aziraphale would catch a glimpse of Crowley sprawled on his couch in the shop, sunglasses askew and napping contentedly in a patch of sunlight, and his heart would fill up with so much love it felt like his corporeal form would burst.

But those were pleasant kinds of awe, and if there were less pleasant times, when fire and water haunted their waking and dreaming thoughts, then at least they were together for those too.

The first time, Aziraphale had gathered Crowley into his arms awkwardly, unsure how to comfort or if he would even be welcome, or if this was something terribly personal that it would be better to politely turn a blind eye to and leave Crowley in peace. But he couldn’t let his demon suffer alone any more than he already had, so he had wrapped his arms tight around him and spoken whatever soothing words he could think of. (Granted, these ended up being the opening lines of  _ Pride and Prejudice,  _ because Aziraphale was desperate and a little lost and therefore fell back on what he usually looked for comfort in: his books. But it was the thought that counted.)

Crowley had clung to him with a desperation that made Aziraphale certain he was doing the right thing, burrowing into his neck and releasing shuddering pent-up sobs, amongst which were mixed words Aziraphale couldn’t make out. Except one phrase: “couldn’t find you.”

“Oh my dear, my dear,” Aziraphale had murmured, stroking Crowley’s hair. “I’m not going anywhere, I assure you.”

Later, when Crowley had gone still in his arms, sniffling damply into his bowtie and making noises that indicated he wanted to pretend this had never happened, Aziraphale asked if he should like him to read out loud for a little while, and then kissed his temple lightly. (He did it because it felt right, and also because he could be a tiny bit scheming when he chose and he knew it would be an excellent way of distracting Crowley. Although he didn’t expect it to be quite  _ so  _ effective; it rendered the poor demon nearly inert for several minutes.)

A particular four-letter word had not yet been spoken out loud, and although that was unlikely to change for a considerable amount of time, it didn’t stop either of them from thinking it very loudly in each other’s direction at every possible opportunity.

“There’s a new sushi restaurant opening downtown, I thought we might try it out later this week,” Aziraphale would say.  _ I love you,  _ he would think, and gaze at Crowley as though he were more beautiful than every single star in the sky: which, to Aziraphale, he was.

“Whatever you want,” Crowley would grunt, picking up the Infernal Times to hide his smile. Then he’d pass Aziraphale the sugar with another unspoken  _ I love you _ , and if his hand stayed on the table between them as an open invitation for Aziraphale to take it and interlace their fingers, it was a very cunning and demonic plan to distract the angel from good deeds. Or something.

By silent, mutual agreement, neither parted from the other at the end of the day. They were still looking over their shoulders for signs that Heaven and Hell hadn’t let them go quite as easily as it seemed, not to mention cherishing their newfound freedom to  _ not  _ say goodbye. So Crowley slept at the bookshop, which he had done before but never with such regularity, or Aziraphale took a lovingly packed bag of books to Crowley’s flat and spent the night there. (Occasionally Crowley tempted him to indulge in a nap, but for the most part sleep was still a human pastime of which Aziraphale didn’t see the point. Reading and watching over Crowley were  _ much  _ more enjoyable activities.)

It was true that Crowley gave Aziraphale the fright of his life by sleep-crawling up the bookshop walls and accidentally falling down on an unsuspecting angel the next morning. But for the most part this new Arrangement was very much to their liking. They were together, and safe, and when they were tucked away into their own warm little corner of the world as night fell, it seemed like no force of Heaven, Hell, or anything in between could ever harm them again.

As comfortable as this was, it occasionally led to small logistical difficulties.

Aziraphale liked to set out the outfit he was going to wear the next day before he went to bed. (Since he usually rotated between about seven different outfits at maximum, this wasn’t too difficult.) He folded everything up neatly on a chair by the closet in Crowley’s bedroom, with his beloved coat hanging nearby.

He had hinted to Crowley that it would be courtly and romantic to help him get dressed in the morning by slipping the coat gently about his shoulders. Unfortunately, Morning Crowley was usually capable of nothing more than emitting muffled incoherent noises, pitching out of bed with his eyes still closed, and slithering half-asleep to the bathroom to splash water on his face – warm or cold, depending on whether he was feeling chilly or overheated. So Aziraphale had to settle for courtly and romantic gestures at later points throughout the day, when Crowley was conscious enough to offer them.

Crowley had a great many more than seven potential outfits, and he never quite knew which one he would feel in the mood for before the morning he felt it. But he  _ had  _ been known to stumble up in the middle of the night and toss his flat looking for an extra blanket to put on the bed. Usually, the extra blankets were in the closet, near the chair where Aziraphale had placed next day’s clothes.

(The discerning reader may note where this is going.)

“Shit, shit, shit, shit,” Crowley hissed as he tripped over the chair and sent everything, including himself, flying to the floor. Aziraphale had decided to put away the books that particular night and join Crowley in sleep, so there weren’t any lights on. This had led to Crowley slightly misjudging the distance between his foot and the chair. He banged the same foot on the closet door as he thrashed about trying to right himself. “Shit!”

“Are you quite alright, dear?” inquired a sleepy Aziraphale from the bed.

“Mm, fine,” Crowley managed, lifting his head from the 19th century waistcoat he had faceplanted in. “Just... gimme a sec.” He finally got a hand on solid ground and pushed himself to a kneeling position, then stood, wobbling slightly. “I’m good.”

He snapped his fingers, and everything he had knocked over flew back into position. Or so he thought.

The next morning, Aziraphale was still groggy from the relative newness of sleeping, not to mention being awakened in the middle of the night. He dressed with less precision than usual and meandered out to the kitchen, had a cup of coffee, ate breakfast, and left for the shop all in a bit of a daze, as evidenced by his blearily planting an unthinking kiss on Crowley’s cheek before exiting.

If Crowley had been accustomed to being kissed on the cheek, he might have been less flustered and more likely to notice Aziraphale was wearing one tartan sock and one black sock as the angel was walking out the door. He also might have dressed with a bit more care himself.

Several hours later, Crowley’s telephone rang sharply. As usual, he let it go to voicemail.

_ This is Crowley. _

“I know it is! Why are you always saying the same thing, this is  _ important _ – ”

Crowley picked up the phone. “Aziraphale?”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale sighed. “I’ve discovered something absolutely dreadful.”

Several minutes later, when Crowley was done laughing, he suggested a plan to a rather irritated Aziraphale, a plan which was not so different from the lunch plans they had already made.

“You still want to meet at the  _ Ritz?  _ I can’t go to the Ritz with – with – ” 

“Odd socks?” Crowley finished, and went through another bout of laughter.

“It’s not funny!” said Aziraphale, anguished.

“It’s alright, angel,” Crowley said, in a gentler tone than his previous snickering would have suggested. “I’ll miracle it so no one sees you, or me, or them. How’s that?”

“Oh, oh, very well,” sniffed Aziraphale. Of course he could have miracled it himself, but neither of them brought it up, since they both rather enjoyed it this way.

Through the telephone, the tinny sound of his shop bell ringing could be heard.

“You’d better go,” said Crowley. “Someone might want to buy a book.” He cackled.

“You are treading on dangerous ground,” Aziraphale warned, then switched to a cloyingly sweet tone. “Have a lovely day, my  _ dearest,  _ my  _ darling  _ Crowley.” He hung up.

Crowley stopped laughing. His mouth fell open. His face turned shades of pink and red that would have fit right in in a rose garden. He dropped the telephone, and had to try three times to pick it up.

“Touché, Aziraphale,” he muttered when he regained the ability to form words. Then he collapsed back into his chair and floated dizzily but happily on the cloud of “my dearest, my darling Crowley” for far longer than he would ever admit.

Later that day, as an angel and a demon made their way to their usual table, the other patrons of the Ritz found themselves occupied in a deep study of their menu, their meal, their partner’s face, or failing that, the ceiling, for some reason which none of them could ever quite fathom. When Crowley and Aziraphale’s feet were safely hidden under the tablecloth, they nudged them together slightly and surreptitiously clicked their fingers. Aziraphale relaxed and beamed at Crowley, and their hands clasped between plates, resting together on the table.

All now put to rights, they were free to enjoy their meal. And so they did.*

_ *Even if Crowley forgot to un-miracle the restaurant until the third course was being served. _


End file.
